Chapter 16
Sixteen
Mark
After two weeks in the States, I can’t wait to see Nonno again, so I’m not sure why I’m watching Lexington make her way up the street instead of searching for him around Trevi Fountain.
When she’s out of sight, I turn to the crowd. I’ll never find him in this mess. A policeman barks at a man dipping his hand into the forbidden water. Someone backs into me, jostling me against another person, and I start to feel claustrophobic and trapped.
A familiar whistle sounds above me. Nonno waves from the sidewall, and the sight of him is enough to pull me through the crowd and up the steps to him.
His bear hug melts all other pressures away. He steps back, scanning my features with a slight wrinkle of worry between his eyebrows. “You okay?”
I nod. Whether he saw my social distress or not, I answer the bigger question. “It’s never easy to leave Mom and Dad and Katie, but I’m glad to be back.”
He claps me on the shoulder but says nothing. I always watch his reaction when I mention Dad, trying to get a hint of his feelings for his estranged son. Nonno shuts down any attempt to talk about him, so I have to take oblique measures.
I point to the street opposite of the one Lexington disappeared down. “Let’s get out of here. I’m not a fan of Trevi.”
He rubs his hands together. Great. Something amuses him. The whole family is one massive rubber-band ball of mischief, and I don’t trust the gleam in his eye.
“Any reason for that?”
Lots of reasons. My dislike of crowds. My hope-dread of Lexington returning.
Neither of which I can say to Nonno. “The fountain’s fame eclipses everything else.
Is anyone noticing these buildings and the rest of the area?
” Columns and arched doorways grace the buildings, and the imposing Baroque church on the corner is worth at least an afternoon’s worth of architectural interest.
His head knocks back and he hoots, wheezing.
“You dislike Trevi Fountain because it’s hogging people’s attention?
You’re very crabby today.” Nonno pats me on the back, cutting my defense short.
“Come on. I figured you’d want another look at the palazzo, and then your nonna wants us to pick up zucchini blossoms on the way to the house. ”
It’s a hot, sticky walk, but worth it. Every time I size up this Renaissance-style mansion, set back from the road in all its tired pomp, the potential makes my skin tingle.
Instead of pigeon- and bat-infested rooms, sagging beams, and crumbling plaster, I envision stenciled ceilings, Romanesque patterns on the cornices, frescoes on the walls, and polished marble floors.
When the broken glass and rotting frames of the tall windows are repaired, light will flood the row of connecting rooms along the front.
My blueprints highlight all the history while making it a comfortable, glamorous venue.
Dad once told me his dream was to renovate an Italian villa. I’m inches (well, we’re in Europe, so millimeters) from doing that. I could ask him to help. This could lure him to Rome.
I want this project.
It’s in such a bad state that nothing is even locked. Rehashing our proposed plans for the reconstruction, Nonno and I walk to the back side, where stairs from the white marble terrace lead to an extensive, overgrown lawn and a wild, weedy rose garden.
Nonno was in charge of the landscape plans, which he hadn’t finished before I left for the States. He sweeps his arm to include a swath of gravel walks and a small grove of untended trees. “The new gate would open up to a drive-through here.”
“Wait, tear down the pavilion? We can’t do that.” Decrepit, open-air columns hold up a domed roof in the middle of where Nonno says the drive would go. It needs a little restoration love, but its location is picturesque and would be a big draw for people.
“They need more parking.”
I turn, looking for another space for cars, but he’s right. If the owners need parking, this is the only choice. “So let’s move it.” The pavilion is already practically in pieces, so it wouldn’t be too hard to deconstruct and then relocate.
“It’s a modern addition made to appear ancient. Not made well, either.”
I trudge through high grass and weeds until I’m inches from one of the columns. He’s right. There are none of the typical white chunks of lime clasts in the concrete that show up in ancient Roman structures.
“I wouldn’t step inside. It’s one strong breath away from collapsing. I’m surprised the city inspector hasn’t roped it off yet. Come on. We’d better get those zucchini blossoms from the market or your nonna will hide my favorite slippers for a week.”
I take one last look at the structure. Pity.
We head northwest, pass the Pantheon, and end up in the Campo de’ Fiori square right at the two o’clock closing time.
The hooded statue of Giordano Bruno seems to frown on all the market activity, the morning’s mess of selling from stalls littering the area, with empty crates and truck beds half loaded.
Nonno steps over wilted leaves and a smashed eggplant, and skirts a pile of pallets.
An old woman sits on an overturned crate with a bag.
“Ciao, Elena. Have you been waiting long?”
She squints up at Nonno, half her teeth missing, and stands, whacking him on the arm. “Just an hour, sloth. Next time I save you the best, I expect flowers from Alba’s garden.”
I watch their easy interaction. Nonno’s way with people is something I crave, but it might come with having grown up here.
I’m stuck between foreigner and local. It’s Zeno’s dichotomy paradox—the ability to move only half the distance to the goal means I won’t ever reach it, but I have to keep trying.
We leave with the zucchini and Elena’s warnings not to smash the fragile blossoms. The metro is emptier than usual since it’s August, but stuffy.
When we’re settled in seats near the door, I bring up Dad again.
Might as well start paving the way in case I can get him to visit. “At Katie’s engagement party—”
Nonno stops me, palm out, and makes a panicked sound. “Are you trying to get us killed? Your grandmother said no talking about your trip until we get to the house. Can you imagine what she’d do to both of us if she misses out on any family gossip?”
True. Nonna is . . . a force. She’s got a finger in every pot, an opinion for every situation, and the nerve to back up every threat. Because her love for people is so fierce.
We emerge from the metro at the Flaminio stop, the fresh wind and bright afternoon sunshine a welcome change, and climb the hill to the house.
Six years ago, the first time Nonno walked me up this street a few weeks after Zoe left, it was almost Christmas.
After a semester with university students and Zoe’s circle of American expats, I was starved for family life and normalcy, even if it looked more Italian than American.
It was stupid of me not to contact my extended family until then, but they were strangers.
Without a word, Nonna had wrapped me in a grandmotherly hug, giving what young men are too proud and manly to ask for. She took stock of me for two seconds and judged me “thin, heartsick, and lost.” Then she stuffed me with homemade pasta, which—no exaggeration—fixed almost everything.
Nonno pushes the creaky iron gate open and we pass through. The family is already gathered out on the shaded terrace, so we take the shortcut through the living room. Metal chairs scrape on the mossy bricks, and kids giggle, nearly drowning out the low murmur of adult conversation.
As always, the framed childhood photo on the side table stops me. The four siblings sit lined up on the sand at a beach—Flavio, Dad, Stella, and Alice. My dad has the same photo stuffed away in an album.
On that first visit here, this picture connected me to my world back home.
That was the moment I fell in love with Italy and knew I had to fix the breach in our family.
And now, walking out to the terrace, seeing three of the siblings together without my dad, it hits again.
The closer I get to the chance to restore the palazzo, the bigger and more urgent the need grows to get Dad here.
After another round of hugs and kisses, Nonna pours us each a spritz and nudges me into a chair under the scissor leaves of a massive palm tree. Dinner won’t be for at least an hour, but the table is loaded with her aperitivo spread—bruschetta, cured meats and cheeses, and tiny quiches.
I pull my chair closer to Mariella. “Never found you last night. Were you avoiding me?”
“Luca wanted me to help him with his breads early this morning, so I left right after dinner. Did you make a lot of contacts with the other festival participants?”
“Filled up my scorecard, which made the whole evening a lot less painful than I thought it would be. I even met a film cinematographer—that was super interesting. And the best part is I found out this morning that I won the vernissage. Can you believe that?”
The lady on the call said it would be Lexington showing me the Reena Brooke painting. Tingles shoot up and down my spine every time I think of it. The painting reveal, I mean. Obviously.
“Oh, speaking of gifts.” With my bag on my lap, I pull out the Red Sox hat and show her under the table. Her eyes widen, and she presses her lips in a playing with fire face.
Danilo’s off playing with the other little cousins—all girls—but he comes looking for food soon enough. I beckon him to me and put my finger to my lips. He hustles around to my side and lifts his T-shirt sleeve to wipe the sweaty hair plastered to his forehead. “Hi, Marco. What’s up?”
“Can you keep a secret?”
He glances around, scratching his bare leg. “Nah, probably not.”
I chuckle. “I didn’t think so. Here. Put this on, but don’t say anything. I want to know how long it takes your dad to notice.”
Danilo peeks under the table and claps his hand to his mouth. “A baseball hat? Thank you!” He sets the hat on his head. “Like this? Do I have it right?”
I give him a thumbs-up. He grabs a handful of red grapes and saunters off, humming.
Mariella shakes her head. “Uncle Beppe is going to find revenge for that. ‘Football is the only sport!’” She air quotes our uncle’s favorite motto.
“Exactly.”
My phone buzzes with a notification. I pull open the email—the airline has delivered my luggage.
They’ve attached a photo showing the “secure” location where they left it at my apartment, inside the lobby behind the potted plant.
I zoom in on the picture and groan. It’s not my luggage, and I know by the scrap of bright fabric on the handle whose it is.
“What’s wrong?” Mariella holds her glass away and cranes her head toward my phone. There is nothing off-limits in this family.
“Got the luggage from my flight but it’s not mine.”
“So call the airline and have them switch it.”
I shake my head, ignoring the buzzing in my chest. “It’ll be quicker to do it myself. I know whose it is.”
“You knew someone on your flight?” Mariella’s dark eyebrows rise over the edge of her glass as she takes a fizzy sip.
Nonna emerges from the kitchen carrying another plate of crostini with olive paste.
“No, I met someone on my flight. Actually, in the airport.” As soon as the correction is out of my mouth, I understand my error.
If I thought it would be bad having my sister Katie catch sight of Lexington, that’s nothing compared to the prodding and questioning I’d get if Nonna hears of it.
She gets so fired up about women in my life.
Nonna won’t care one iota that Lexington is in a competitive bet with me.
If Lexington and I had a conversation, she’s fair game for Grandma’s plans for my future.
Actually, even if we only crossed paths and made eye contact, Nonna would consider her fair game. It doesn’t help that she can hear through doors, walls, and probably across cities. She’s gotten her hopes up so many times. I don’t want to do that to her now.
Mariella sets down her glass, glancing at the others seated around the table.
Nonno is tickling my little cousin Rosa.
The two uncles are rolling tobacco cigarettes and arguing, and Nonna is bossing the aunts on what dishes to rearrange on the table so there’s room for the platter she’s lowering over the food like a spaceship landing.
Mariella drops her voice, but not enough to clue the others into the fact we’re discussing secrets. A skill one learns quickly in this house. “As in, a girl?”
With disastrous timing, the conversation hits a lull at that exact moment. Nonna gasps, sets the platter down on the table right on top of the quiche, and bustles over to me, cradling my cheeks between her work-roughed palms.
Great. She heard. Sometimes in this family, I feel twelve years old.
“What about a girl? There’s a girl?”
I pull her hands from my face, gentle with the letdown. “It’s nothing, Nonna. Just a luggage mix-up.”
Lexington isn’t nothing—try a tornado with lightning inside it. Complete with the trail of destruction behind it. If there were such a thing as a tornado that was quick to laugh and whose silky hair tempted your fingers.
Nonno wraps his arms around Rosa, pausing her squirming. “Is this the lovely girl you were talking to at Trevi Fountain?”
He saw me.
And that’s how it happens, folks. One word in one ear, and we’re dealing with at least an hour of pandemonium. I shoot an I’ll-deal-with-you-later glare to Mariella, who lets out a literal cackle. “How was I supposed to know?”
I have to shut this down ASAP.
“Hey, Danilo,” I shout, desperate, toward the kids playing a board game in the living room, “show your dad the hat I brought you from Boston.”
The distraction doesn’t work.